


Men and Monsters

by midnightflame



Series: As Human as We Are [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Drinking, Halloween Costumes, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 03:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10402548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: “My, what grey eyes you have. . .”Shiro stills before the doors, a smile sliding slow over his lips. He cocks his head to the side, studying Keith shamelessly as he sits there on the edge of the desk, legs spread, face cast in shadow by the hood of his jacket.“All the better to see you with.”[Or As Seasons Shift basically gets a terrible Halloween PWP.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just a self-indulgent idea based upon a slew of ideas I have regarding the Seasons universe. This one brings us full circle - from Halloween to Halloween - and with it a revisit to all those hell-spawned themes courtesy of Milton and everything wonderfully horrid that All Hallows' Eve can be. I also wanted to play around with the idea of a dark!Shiro/Kuro as he might manifest in the more ordinary world, and this was my answer to that. . . .I'm certain I should apologize somewhere to someone for this. . .
> 
> Also I completely forgot but in the spirit of the series this piece also has a song and it is NSFW - Rhianna's 'Red Lipstick'
> 
> And now there is an absolutely [amazing bit of art](https://theprojectava.tumblr.com/post/158969910238/big-bad%20-wolf-here-we-go-again-were-sick-like) for this piece that has left me floored and humbled and so ridiculously excited so please go shower endless love on it!! (The song is kinda amazing too!)

“You ever just sit here and think _yeah, I could be hitting that_?”

“I _am_ hitting that,” Keith murmurs, distracted by the shot glass that had just been pressed into his hand. He gives it a careful swirl, watching as the darker liquid lurking at the bottom begins to suffuse throughout the upper layer of radioactive green. Within seconds, the contents of the glass begin to morph into a foreboding purple.

“I wasn’t talking about you, Red.”

Keith wrinkles his nose, giving the rim of the glass a sniff. 

“Whatever thoughts you’re entertaining, burn them. Now. ” He pauses to toss a glance up at Lance, who is still watching Shiro on the other side of the room with a smirk sitting wicked and cozy in the left corner of his mouth. About as at home there as the idiomatic bat in hell would be. With a kick of his shoulder against Lance’s hip, Keith turns his attention back to the shot in his hand. “What was this one again?”

“My thoughts are my own to do with as I please, though I suppose I can burn if that’ll satisfy some sick desire of yours.” Lance finally gathers the better part of his attention and fixes it on Keith. He flicks his index finger into a point down at the shot. “And that, my lost friend, is Zombie’s Blood.”

Eyes narrow down at the liquid, which has now churned itself into a volatile black mix of liquors, part of which Keith imagines bad life choices and regrets stem from. None of which have ever seemed to stop Lance. . .and inevitably the vast majority of their group on outings like this. 

But who is he to judge. . .?

“Just imagine the red Jolly Rancher getting his rocks off with the green one, and you got caught somewhere in the middle. . .”

Keith can feel the grimace groping about before it ever makes its way to his lips.

“Well, there’s an image to make you lose your appetite and any sense of decency.”

Lance huffs softly, amused. “This is Halloween – no one is decent tonight. But trust me, it’s like a bit of heaven in your mouth, though maybe you’d rather have something else - ”

“Don’t even finish that statement.”

The arm of the couch groans suddenly as Lance sinks down against it. Tipping his shot glass with a soft _clink!_ against Keith’s, he leans in and grins, wide and unapologetic, lashes fluttering. The perfect picture of brewing mischief and Keith thinks he would spare himself a world of impending trouble if he showed Lance to the floor rather than let him swallow the space between them, close as sin’s worst intentions. 

But sometimes, Keith thinks he’s a glutton for the terrible in life. Which might explain a lot in regards to his friendship with Lance, and it’s nothing he’s particularly sorry for. (Honesty’s supposed to be a virtue, right?) Good intentions, gold-brick paths – it’s everybody’s favorite highway to hell’s front door. Maybe one of these days, they would actually knock, but for now, he’s never once found himself regretting the ride or a day spent in Lance’s company. 

“Maybe his name begins with an S,” Lance spills the sound right against Keith’s ears, low and sibilant, mouth catching on a smirk at the tail end of it. “And maybe it ends with an o-ooo-oooooooo…”

Well, most of the time he doesn’t regret it.

Keith cants his head to the side just in time to catch the moan as it works its way over Lance’s lips with enough manufactured pleasure to make any pornstar gasp with delight. He gives his shot glass another quick swirl, then tosses back the inky liquid with a smile wicked as the devil’s own.

“Vampire’s Kiss was better.” He licks his lips, letting his gaze drift towards Shiro. “And I don’t sound anything like that when I come.”

Laughter dissolves on Lance’s tongue at that, sending him rolling back onto his feet and tugging at the metallic silver skirt hugging his thighs like a second life. He downs his own shot seconds later, still unable to stop the tide of laughter bubbling up from his throat, and ends up coughing moments after, tears springing to his eyes. 

“You can stop already.”

“But. . .I. . .” Lance snorts out, the sound choking on its own mirth. He waves his hand in the air a few times, swallows heavily, then finally breathes out with a weighted _whewwwwww_. “Fuck, Keith. You don’t hit a man like that when he’s not expecting it. I think I just lost a year of my life. . .”

“And here I thought it had been your sanity.”

“I haven’t drunk nearly enough for that.”

“Then you have no defense for that skirt you’re wearing.”

Lance lifts an eyebrow at that, loaded with some question Keith can see just begging for the shot. Aim, fire, and maybe he’d be watching some lesser part of him bleed out for the taunt. The corner of his mouth quirks upward, and with a faint tip of his head, Keith is smirking like a cat that not only got the cream but may have conned the milkman into serving it to him as well. 

Lance melts onto the arm of the couch once more, throwing his arm across the backrest and tipping his head, silver poofball wig and all, right against Keith’s.

“You’re lucky you have a face like that or else I would have smeared that look right across it,” he sighs, a touch dramatic but nothing honest in the sound. 

“That’s assuming a lot, Mercutio,” Keith retorts, giving Lance’s side a poke with his elbow. 

“Says the guy who made me watch that fucking movie with him a million times.”

“It was for school.”

“Calling bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Pretty sure Shiro might actually end my life if I tried that.”

This time it’s Keith staring down Shiro, with an eyebrow raised and head settled against the fluff of Lance’s wig. Full conspiracy in the making. “You think?”

“You’ve seen him naked. You know the size of those biceps, and I’m not even going to touch on his thighs. . .”

A groan gurgles, half-formed, in Keith’s throat. “I think I might actually die right now. . .”

Lance drags his arm from the back of the couch and settles it around Keith’s shoulders. “How did you even get him to dress in that tonight?”

A low hum skirts around the groan still thinking about bursting somewhere over the back of his tongue. On the other side of the room, Shiro briefly catches his gaze, a small smile working its way over his lips, just a bit apologetic, as their eyes meet. When a hand alights upon his forearm, Shiro turns his head to look back at the owner of said appendage, and as he leans down and lips rise to meet his ear something like laughter tumbles out of his mouth seconds later. Or that’s what it looks like from Keith’s perspective.

It’s kind of hard to hear anything over the music blaring from the next room. 

Not that it matters, because Keith can feel the heat melting his core, this molten mix of desire and something far darker churning at the very center of him. And he knows it has nothing to do with the shots he had taken that night and everything to do with the way fingertips fell upon Shiro’s forearm, the back of his hand, the curve of his shoulder, nothing of innocence in their inquiries. 

“I told him if he did I would spend every second I found myself looking at him thinking of all the ways I’d want to fuck him. . .”

Lance whistles low against his ear, almost chiding. “So much for fair play.”

“No such thing in love or war,” Keith hears himself murmuring, but his voice sounds a thousand miles away, lost to the stars. 

Across the room, Shiro is smiling that soft bit of smile he always gets when he is playing the room, when he knows he is surrounded by a world not his own but will navigate it regardless. And he could do it effortlessly, because beneath it all he is just that good, that upstanding, and he is the greatest fraud Keith has ever found himself wanting. Shiro dips his head again. A hand reaches up to pet the wide triangular ears nestled in his dark hair. 

Another spill of laughter.

Another scalding _pop!_ within Keith’s gut.

When a hand makes for the black tail tucked into the back of Shiro’s pants, which the man deftly avoids with a twist of his hips and a wave of his hand, Keith finds the beer he had forgotten between his thighs and swallows the remaining third of it down without remorse. Not even a thought to lament the stale warmth of it as it slides down his throat and goes to swish about with everything else roiling in his core. Instead, his eyes remain locked on the play across the room, as Shiro backs up slightly with that smile still clinging to his lips, ruthless in its advocacy for normalcy. 

“Look at that,” Lance says with a shake of his head, amusement clinging to his words. “Bo Peep, Mary’s Not-So-Little-Lamb, and Miss Muffet, or whoever the hell she’s supposed to be. . .Spencer’s best all starts looking the same after a while. You certain he’s the big bad wolf, Red?”

Keith swallows, gaze burning right through the scene half a room away.

“You have no idea.”

And there is something promising utter devastation in his voice, this low growl of a sound that claws its way over his lips and puts intent right out there in the open. Keith glances up as Lance peels himself away from his body heat and the perch he had on the couch, with this smile that’s slung smugly over his mouth, full of acceptance for everything Keith’s words had promised. 

“Gonna go give my greetings to Rolo since he was nice enough to invite us over. Try not to spill too much blood tonight.”

Lance waves as he heads into the kitchen, where the makeshift bar had been planted and the majority of the party seemed to be coalescing. A breath later, and he’s nothing more than the whisper of an afterthought, Keith’s attention returning squarely to where Shiro is still surrounded by Nursery Rhyme’s finest, short frills glancing against thighs and coy smiles pulling pretty at painted lips. 

And Shiro? He doesn’t look intent on devouring a single one of them. 

Big, bad wolf is right.

Keith finds himself smiling despite it all, this sharp cut of curve over his lips that's glossed with only the slightest bit of self-deprecation. He leans back against the couch, rolling the tip of his index finger over the mouth of his now empty beer bottle, which has been set back between his thighs and nestled quite cozily up against his crotch. His gaze lingers on Shiro, following the line of his arm, down fingers that curl around his own amber bottle. One of the girls, Bo Peep Keith assumes, reaches up and tugs on the zipper of Shiro’s motorcycle jacket, teeth biting playfully into her lower lip as he reaches up to make the valiant effort to clothe his skin once more.

The smile over Keith’s mouth is sliced down to a smirk. He reaches behind his shoulder to pull the hood of his jacket, an open-heart sort of red in color, right over his head. 

Shiro catches his gaze over the top of Not-So-Little-Lamb’s head, mouth quirking, expression sliding into the range of quizzical. He brings his beer bottle to his lips, letting the rim of it linger against them before taking a sip, his eyes never once leaving Keith’s. And all around him, the girls chatter on about something, laughing amongst themselves, all parties seemingly oblivious to each other’s thoughts in that singular moment. 

But Keith can see it, the way Shiro’s mouth tightens around his beer and his eyelids fall to half-mast. He flicks his tongue out over his lower lip, retracts it to touch against the tip of an incisor, as Shiro seems to falters on his next breath. And it would be easy enough for any of those girls to think it had been something they said that had brought the heat to Shiro’s cheeks, because sometimes the lie is worth believing even if it still got you no where worth being in the end. 

Pulling his own bottle free of the confines of his thighs, Keith sets it amongst the herd of them already congregating around the end of the couch then pushes himself to his feet. Shiro’s gaze locks with his as he approaches; something burns itself black within those grey eyes, and it stokes the fire in Keith’s core ever higher, ever hotter. 

“Friend of yours?”

Bo Peep. Or maybe it was Miss Muffet. It sounds almost hopeful. 

But quite frankly, Keith doesn’t care, and neither does Shiro because his eyes haven’t drifted from Keith’s once since he left the couch behind him, an island forgotten for the better parts of home, and there’s this tiny pull of a smirk on his mouth that’s both question and answer. 

_Why are you here?_

“Red,” Keith finds himself replying, watching as the smirk on Shiro’s lips starts to spread into a smile, as the hunger starts to creep into his eyes. “And I’m something better than that.”

_For everything that you are._

Shiro starts to laugh then, shoulders offering a small shrug by way of apology as Keith latches onto his wrist and tugs him way from the group. Shiro’s other hand finds itself slipping beneath the lower edges of Keith’s jacket, coasting up along his side, as he steps in closer. And there’s nothing murmuring _sorry_ in the way he lowers his head down alongside Keith’s, no remorse in the curve of his mouth set against the line of his neck.

“Took you long enough.”

Keith huffs out softly.

“I thought the wolf did the hunting in this tale. . .” 

A pause as they turn the corner out of the room, putting them into the main hallway of the house. He tips his head back, letting lips brush warm against Shiro’s ear, the girls forgotten but not the searing flash of heat still setting fire to his core.

“ _Woof_ ,” he whispers, then smiles at the way Shiro’s hand clamps down over his ribs. 

“Since when do wolves bark?” Shiro murmurs against skin. 

“They don’t really. . .”

Keith slips free of the grip upon his side, spinning about on his heels and starting a backward walk down the hall. Every step he takes a beckon to Shiro, who follows in his wake, one careful step at a time. And Keith doesn’t miss the way the darkness curls like smoke in Shiro’s gaze, every wanton thought smoldering just beneath the grey of his eyes. All of it telling him that Shiro did not forget – not once – the words Keith had whispered to him as they had stood in the apartment, preparing for another Halloween.

 _Their_ first. 

And he hadn’t forgotten the way Shiro’s fingers had bitten into the leather of his pants as he had stood in the bathroom half naked and stared down Keith’s mirrored image, or the way his lips had parted when they were overcome by a smile in the shadow left by Keith’s words, hot and wonderfully bothered. 

“You going to howl for me instead?” 

The corner of Shiro’s mouth pulses with movement, a smirk pulling itself slowly into being. He dips his head, laughter threatening upon his lips. The sort of low-seated echo that comes from a man’s worst intentions and the best of his heart, the kind of sound that makes every ounce of you believe there is love to be found in the debased. That you can wallow in the darkest pools of desire and still find heaven. 

It puts the thrill right into Keith’s blood, sending it racing, beat after fiery beat, from heart to groin. Because there is nothing that does not pass through each chamber before making it to some other part of him. 

And there’s a definite part of him rousing. Not at all helped by the way Shiro’s steps slide from mere captive’s tread to a predator’s solid stalk, boots falling heavy then heavier still against the wood floor.

“Maybe if you earn it. . .”

A shiver splits his spine, and Keith finds the breath hanging on his lips just as something squeezes tight in his chest. He glances to his left, noting a handful of various B-grade monsters milling about the dining room with what looks suspiciously like an Ouija board, none of them the least bit interested in the progression he’s making deeper into the house with Shiro hot on his tail.

He huffs out, a bit more ragged than he cares to admit to, and tips his head back with a smile flourishing as an act of defiance. 

“I’ll have you doing more than that.”

Shiro walks on silent, simply taking another drag from his bottle and swallowing slow enough that Keith can see the movement ripple down his throat. Not once does Shiro’s gaze deviate from the prey Keith has made of himself, locked on to every bit of him, and Keith thinks he might just be swallowing down every ounce of him as well. Never has he felt so devoured by a gaze, broken down, inch by inch, by a mere look. He finds himself near breathless by the time he reaches the double doors at the end of the hallway.

A fumble of a grip behind him – one, two, three times - and just before Shiro can descend upon him, the doors creak open. He slips inside, casting his gaze about quickly to make sure the room is unoccupied. 

It is.

Part of him wonders if that’s a good thing, with the way his heart is pounding against his ribcage like a man condemned but screaming innocence. Another part, the one that has his cock hardening and the smirk burning black as midnight’s last ride over his lips, delights in the emptiness of the room. The study, or so Rolo has called it. A cavern of a room, comparatively speaking, where a large mahogany desk sits center, just before a row of built-in bookcases, which are mostly empty save for a few oddities, scant rows of requisite textbooks, and a handful of wayward Halloween decorations. 

Keith backs himself up against the desk, curving palms around its edge and hoisting himself up as Shiro turns to lock the doors behind him. 

“My, what grey eyes you have. . .”

Shiro stills before the doors, a smile sliding slowly over his lips. He cocks his head to the side, studying Keith shamelessly as he sits there on the edge of the desk, legs spread, face cast in shadow by the hood of his jacket. 

“All the better to see you with.”

Something starts storming in Keith’s lungs at that response, at the way Shiro’s voice had dipped low, words laced with amusement. As Shiro begins to move forward, Keith licks at his lips and tries to will the racket of his heart down to something more reasonable. Less clamor, more rhythm. The top edge of Shiro’s vest is still undone, the zipper gleaming like hell’s flame, silver caught by the interwoven orange and purple lights strung across the top of the bookshelves. 

But with every step closer, Keith finds each breath a lightning strike against his lungs, every beat of his heart a roll of thunder. And it begins to make perfect sense how someone could get so impossibly lost in a forest, black with desires and every promise of fulfillment held there in its darkest depths. 

A hand sets to either side of him as Shiro slides in between his thighs. Keith's lips pull tight with a smile, full of fight. 

Because he imagines Red goes down swinging in this story. 

“And what sweet lips you have. . .” he murmurs as he leans forward, mouth but a breath away from Shiro’s. 

Keith watches as the amusement flickers and flares in Shiro’s gaze, as his tongue darts out and swipes along the line of his lower lip. 

With a cant of his head, everything about his posture whispering just how wickedly entertained he is, Shiro replies, “All the better to taste you with, my dear. . .”

A mere brush of lips at that, as Keith purposefully holds himself just out of reach. All so he can make out the flash of frustration in Shiro’s gaze, as his lips part in full anticipation. When Shiro reaches up and cups the side of Keith’s neck with his right palm, he does so with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A sure sign of restraint being bitterly contested. With a flick of his thumb, he sends Keith’s hood tumbling back behind his head.

Keith reaches down, popping free the button of Shiro’s pants, just as a smirk curls itself into existence at the edge of his lips. Every aspect of it taunting. Shiro’s breath hitches as the zipper is tugged down, bit by bit, the sound of it echoing against his ears. 

And as he slides his hand down the front of Shiro’s pants, over hardened flesh straining against boxer briefs, Keith closes the last fraction of an inch between them. Lets his lips paint every word across Shiro’s held breath.

“Should I finish this?”

A small huff of laughter frees itself from Shiro’s throat. His gaze latches onto Keith’s as his next words come out rough and remorseless. 

“Is this the part where I go on about the better to fuck you with?”

“So, you are going to fuck me. . .”

“Pretty sure there’s a porno out there that wants its plot back.”

“We would make a better one.” Keith kicks his head back, smile burning devious across his lips. “You saw a porno like this?”

And though he can’t see it, Keith can feel the heat burning along Shiro’s cheeks. 

“Just assuming there is one. . . .”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still going to fuck me here tonight.”

Shiro groans at that, but Keith doesn’t know if it’s from his words or the way he’s started rubbing at Shiro’s cock. There’s a good chance it’s both, given their history. 

“Do you have to keep putting it like that?” Shiro grinds out, lips pulling to a visibly strained smile. 

Keith quirks an eyebrow as he slides Shiro’s cock out into the open and rolls the flat of his palm firmly down the length of his shaft. 

“This coming from the guy who had me bent over the kitchen table this morning. . .”

A moan rewards him for the effort, and this time, Shiro takes the kiss that had been threatened minutes before, letting the sound drown in the space between them. It’s hard, needing, nothing love-struck about it. Just this searing bit of taking that has Keith breathless, emptied, and his lips throbbing as Shiro pulls back to breathe out another soft groan of pleasure. 

Keith slides forward, sets his mouth against Shiro’s ear, then gives his cock one easy pump as he whispers, “Did you think I didn’t realize how you like that, Shiro?”

A pause, index finger slick with pre-cum sliding down the underside of Shiro’s shaft. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Keith murmurs, a single word steeped in sin and promise, rolled out as slow as that final drag on a cigarette. Shiro shudders against him. “C’mon, Takashi. . .”

Without warning, fingers wrap around the curve of Keith’s chin, pulling him down ruthlessly to meet Shiro’s lips as he bites first, kisses second. It steals the very air from his lungs, consuming oxygen as rapidly as wildfire, and it obliterates every thought Keith had entertained of being in control. Hips push up against his hand; lips bruise before parting. Keith feels the heat of Shiro’s tongue against his own, and this time, he’s the one delivering a moan, and it has Shiro’s lips pulling into a smile in the midst of it all. 

This mad bit of joy unfettered. 

Keith reaches into his jacket pocket, fingers fumbling again as they try to dismantle the zipper and free the contents he had locked inside. It takes a frustration-fueled moment, caught between the lure of Shiro’s lips and that damning smile teasing him before Keith can slide his fingers inside and fish out the condom and a travel-sized bottle of lube. 

Not that he had been planning or anything. It had been more of a _let’s see where the night takes us_ sort of thing, the kind of night where maybe an idea or two had been floating about his head. It had only been solidified by the need to claim that had started sparking electric in his stomach as he had watched Shiro surrounded by wolves dancing in sheep’s clothing. 

Only Keith is beginning to realize Shiro had never once forgotten just who held his heart collared and chained. 

As the bottle skitters over the desk, Shiro diverts his attention towards it, leaving Keith almost mournful for the lack of contact. Lips press a languid kiss to the corner of Keith’s mouth, Shiro’s gaze still locked on the contents strewn beside them. 

“Your pants, Keith.”

It’s a growl, guttural and desperate as only starvation can drive a sound to be, and it has Keith’s core coiling in on itself, this tight constricted want that starts to snake around his bones and put the weight right into his lungs, making every breath a battle. And he thinks this has to be the worst of it, that there is nothing more Shiro can do to drag him right into all that he is, but when his eyes catch on Shiro’s gaze, Keith finds that he still has far more left of him for the taking.

Because that is the look of desire unveiled, irrefutable and unmistakable. And it burns, this low smoldering heat that turns the grey of Shiro’s eyes to embers smoking against the night sky. One look and Keith knows there is no escape, that there had never been one from the start. 

He reaches down to unbutton his jeans, with just a glimpse taken of Shiro before him, at his cock hard and ready, at the way that gaze drops to his groin as Keith slides down the zipper of his pants. Fingers loiter there, drumming against his upper thigh; lips start to shift, corners lofted, then part as Keith lets loose a low exhale. 

Shiro grabs at his hips and tugs, one precise power-driven pull that has Keith sliding across the desk and right up against the man waiting for him. He wraps his legs around Shiro’s waist and grinds. Slow, controlled. And he watches as Shiro sets his jaw, then answers a breath later with a roll of his hips against Keith’s ass. 

As he leans forward, Keith lets his fingers touch upon Shiro’s neck, tracing the line of his jugular down, down, down, sliding across skin until the zipper of his vest his found and that goes down too, with the same lingering touch that had marked its route from pulse point to the heart’s final resting place. Keith drags his fingers back up, from stomach to chest, all under Shiro’s ever watchful gaze. And he considers it a well-won victory when tongue touches absently to the tip of a canine and Shiro’s gaze darkens with images spun from the fires of hell itself.

Those sorts of thoughts that would put the Hail Mary’s right onto the lips of the pious and self-righteous. Have them praying for a soul’s salvation.

Taking the fun right out of life and love.

Another jerk of his hips has Shiro moaning once more. It may as well have been the trigger pulled because seconds later, shots are fired: his pants are at his knees, the breath useless in his lungs, and he can feel the full heat of Shiro’s cock as it grinds against his bare ass. This time, Keith is the one choking on the sound trying to clamor its way up his throat.

Shiro presses against him again. Keith feels his core contract. 

“Fuck!” His head falls back, eyes closing briefly. 

He’s brought back seconds later by teeth grazing against his wrist and a voice almost foreign in its depth, in the way want scorches every syllable. 

“I’m getting to that,” Shiro growls. 

The moan that parts his lips all but begs for it. 

Teeth sink into skin, the bite controlled but certain to mark. As tongue laps at the bruising spot, Keith can hear the bottle top popping open. And he doesn’t know what Shiro's hand finds first in the aftermath of that sound – his cock, if the rumble in his chest is any indication of pleasure momentarily given, or Keith's ass, as two fingers slide themselves inside of him and drag a tight gasp right from his lips. A passing shock of pain that fades all too easily, soothe by the memory of that morning and how Shiro had taken him first and breakfast second. 

But that’s the thing about hunger – sometimes you aren’t simply filled by the initial serving. 

A breath shakes itself loose from his core. Keith pushes up suddenly in its wake, right hand flying to Shiro’s chest as his hips lift and roll. A third finger slips in. Another breath hitches in Keith’s throat. Nails rake down skin.

“Would you just fuck me already?!”

Shiro’s movements fall to stillness, but Keith can still feel the way his chest heaves, thinks he can pick apart the pounding of his heart from the music hitting dull against the walls. And then. . .then there’s this moment, where their eyes meet, and Shiro’s mouth begins to curve, and the smirk that Keith sees taking his lips is slick with satisfaction. 

As if he had just let the cage door lift on a lion and told him to claim everything that was his across the plains. Told him he could have the stars and the moon too if he wanted as much. That there’s this whole universe for the taking.

Including every ounce of him.

Shiro leans down, lips brushing against the corner of Keith’s mouth, as he reaches for the condom. 

“And just how would you have me _fuck_ you?” he murmurs.

An eyebrow quirks upwards at that, the blood running rampant through his heart. He watches with parted lips, silent, as Shiro retracts, as he tears open the packet and takes his cock in hand, as he rolls the condom down the length of his arousal, his gaze locked on Keith.

That’s something he had come to learn about Shiro in moments like this - the man could be perfectly shameless when he wanted to be. Give him an inch, and he’d study it completely, inside and out, every angle considered in full, but once he took it, there was nothing of the mile that he wouldn’t own. 

“Like you did after midterms,” Keith replies, the breath shuddering over his lips.

Something cuts across Shiro’s gaze, stark as lightning against the midnight sky. Recognition as memory ignites, and Keith can only stare, mesmerized, at the smile that spreads Shiro’s lips, fully accepting of every broken bit of desire that has marred better reasoning and blanket sentiments of morality. And Keith quietly loves Shiro when embodies every bit of the human he is rather than the person the world would want him to be. It tells him that he’s still alive, still breathing, still fighting. 

Still wanting every bit of Keith that he can claim as his own.

Right hand curls its way over the side of Keith’s thigh; the left braces against the edge of the desk. Keith lifts his hips and finds his lungs groping for a breath when Shiro presses into him, slow and careful as the tip of his cock buries itself into heated flesh, and then sharp and demanding as the rest of him drills in deeper. They stay locked like that for a moment, as Keith finally locates the air he needs and Shiro steadies himself.

One breath. Then two.

A smirk digs into the corner of Shiro’s mouth, and Keith has half a thought to obliterate it, reconsiders, then plunges forward with the effort as he tightens himself around the base of Shiro’s cock. 

Grey eyes go bottom-of-the-world dark on him. Fingertips dig into his thigh, nails biting into his skin. Shiro pulls his hips back, this agonizing slide out that has Keith whining softly despite himself, has his head falling back and his eyelids slamming shut so that all he can see is the memory of Shiro’s lips curved with absolute wicked intent, the very thing Keith had given him.

A weapon turned on himself, and all he can do is moan for the sheer enjoyment of it.

Because there has never been anything more exquisite than Shiro when he simply. . .

. . . lets go. 

Hips ram forward, pounding and remorseless. Every thrust against him coming with the sharp strike of skin as it hits skin, and Keith can feel it reverberate right up his spine and into his head, putting a tremble to all his thoughts until everything is buzzing with pleasure, raw and rough. The breath snags on his tongue then is pulled free moments later by the moan that rushes up from his chest. 

He rolls his head forward, briefly catching Shiro’s gaze as his eyes open before turning his attention down between his thighs, consuming the sight of Shiro driving into him. Midterm week had seen him on his hands and knees, fingers burying themselves into the sheets as Shiro had fucked him and every ounce of stress right into the mattress. He hadn’t had a chance to watch it all play out, drowning instead in the feeling of being broken down and reforged by the hands that had slid along his back, had tugged against his shoulders all to give Shiro the leverage to drive himself deeper and harder.

Tonight though, Keith has the added delight of seeing every bit of the breakdown working its way through the man above him.

And right now, Shiro is panting - these harsh, restricted little breaths - and Keith won’t ever admit it, but he loves it when Shiro’s breathing goes on lock-down like he’s got something worth hanging on that desperately for.

Like he’s a man with everything to lose and yet fears nothing in the face of fighting for it. Holding tight and tighter still. 

The hand on his thigh clamps down. Shiro drags Keith another inch closer with one quick tug, and it runs the breath right out of Keith, leaving him momentarily stunned. He moans softly on the next thrust.

Tugs his T-shirt up on the second. Comes on the third one after that. 

But it’s the way Shiro’s lips part, as his name drops heavy and needed, that keeps Keith’s attention rapt. Shiro’s hips stutter, movements turning from a streamlined forward drive to rough, erratic jerks. Keith’s name stumbles from his tongue once more, and it lures Keith up from the depths of the desk and has him dragging Shiro down by his jacket to swallow that name as it spills from his lips yet again. 

Keith has always loved the way Shiro comes. Because the act always finalizes with his name searing itself onto Shiro’s heart, again and again, putting fire to the sounds as they break over his lips and reminding Keith that for every bit of heaven they have crafted for themselves, Shiro still burns every moment for him. 

Whether in the way he always leaves a cup of coffee for him in the morning or in moments like now, when he’s unraveling in the universe of all that Keith’s body is, there is no denying that Shiro is his. 

And sometimes. . .sometimes it absolutely breaks his heart to realize that fact.

The pumping of Shiro’s hips dwindles, slows to a shiver of a stop, leaving Shiro buried in full and completely spent. He drops forward, stomach leaning heavy against the barricade of Keith’s pants, and presses their lips together, panting as the light returns to his eyes. The smallest smile takes his mouth, and it has something fluttering furiously within Keith’s chest.

And that’s when the laughter crumbles over his lips, soft and satisfied. “I can’t believe you just fucked me in Rolo’s study. . .” 

Shiro huffs out against his cheek, the smile growing wider. The tip of his nose trails light across skin as he mouths his way down Keith’s jawline. Then, with a quiet satisfaction - “Aaaaroooooooo. . .”

The howl comes out warm against the side of his neck, and it has the laughter cascading out of Keith's mouth, breathless and shamelessly amused. 

“At least I know how to explain the bite mark.”


End file.
